How do you write about someone you never knew?

There’s a lot of information about Joseph John Berry — or Joe Jr., as his family and friends called him — on the internet. I could recite the facts that I’ve gathered, that he was Chairman and CEO of Keefe, Bruyette, and Woods, and that even though he worked his ass off, he valued family above everything else. Someone else already did that.

I see some of myself in this guy. I’m an entrepreneur. I hustle. I have my own company, go to school full-time to be a teacher (Mr. Berry taught math for a while, too), run a pen pal support group, and work a part-time job. I hope to grow my little web design company into something big, so that it replaces a certain web design firm in my state. I hope to make a difference in kids’ lives the way that some teachers made a difference for me. The way that, it seems, Joseph made a difference in his kids’ lives.

Like Joseph, I also highly value my family. I envision myself as being the kind of mom who greets her kids home from school with fresh baked brownies or muffins. My best friend is my sister. I love listening to my great-grandmother talk about when she was young. I know I can always count on my aunt. I don’t mind doing things with my family, where most people my age are trying to get the hell away from theirs.

I didn’t know Joseph, and I never will. But when I look at his photographs, I don’t see a snooty CEO. I see a man full of warmth and a big heart in his soft eyes.

I wanted to do this not because I feel like I have to, but because like Faiqa said, our nation never mourned our dead. No matter what you believe about 9/11, that is at least one truth. Joseph J. Berry — and all of the others who died that day — deserve to have their stories told. They deserve to be remembered. Not romanticized as if we knew them, but remembered as people who lived and breathed. Who worked. Who loved their families.